


the cure for disillusion

by samberto



Category: Marvel 616, X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Age of X-Man, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutant-Typical Violence, Panic Attacks, Post-Age of X-Man, i refuse to believe all the xtremists came right back a-okay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2020-07-20 14:40:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19993879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samberto/pseuds/samberto
Summary: “Hi, Jean-Paul. It’s Bobby. Wanted to let you know I’m safe for the night an’ that I’ll be home tomorrow morning. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you. But, uh, I’m safe,” he pauses for a moment, “and thank you. For everything.” It can’t have been easy, he doesn’t say, I don’t know how to live with what happened back there, I’m not sure if I can, he refuses to add.AKA coping with what you're capable of, an exercise in acceptance





	1. the struggle of staying above the water line

**Author's Note:**

> chapter title from kasey musgraves' "rainbow"

Bobby’s mind is filled with jackhammers, eyes glazed over while slipping through crowds at lowly lit bars, returning to Jean-Paul’s alone after tripping into a stall and leaving before anything closely resembling vulnerability is built. It’s selfish of him to think, but, stumbling back into Jean-Paul and Kyle’s guest bedroom that has been taken over by Bobby for almost a _month_ ( _God, that long already?_ He wonders; there’s so much in his mind that time has fallen on the back burner), but jealousy floods his mind. Jean-Paul has returned to some semblance of normalcy. Jean-Paul has Kyle and their admittedly adorable dog and hope for the future and Bobby’s struggling to stay afloat each day. It takes so much effort to push back thoughts of his work on X-Tremists when in normal conversation, checking out at the 7/11 the sick thought bubbles in the back of his mind, _“That look she gave me, did I do something to her?”_ He knows he should remember, but there’s so much in there of this...person who Bobby hates to admit was once himself.

The closing of the front door forces Bobby out of a couch nap. Jean-Paul nods in greeting, making his way over to help Bobby fold up a blanket. Before he can help, though, he places a series of books on the coffee table, catching Bobby’s attention. The spines have titles related to trauma and understanding Nate Grey’s world. He feels his body tense, his mouth form a grimace, attempting to keep the features to himself, and Jean-Paul has the grace to wait until once they are done folding the blanket to pick the books up again and sit next to Bobby on the couch.

“Bobby,” Jean-Paul begins, and the sinking feeling of dread reignites in the pit of his stomach. “I want you to take this,” he sets a book in the middle cushion of the couch. Bobby takes it warily, glancing over the cover, acknowledging Jean-Paul’s attempt to bring Bobby out of his shell. It’s so unfamiliar, keeping to himself, and it’s _hard_ , at night, stifling a sob with a bitten lip once the heat of the club gets to his head. 

“Thank you,” he responds. 

“Of course,” Jean-Paul gets up, smiling softly (a _very_ non-Jean-Paul move), pausing at the wall to add, “anything you need. We’re here.” 

Adding product to his hair and pulling up a pair of skinny jeans in preparation for yet another night out has become second nature. _Mind Control & You: Trauma Recovery for the Heroically Inclined _ lays discarded on his bed, unopened, with the back of the book, complete with a black and white author photo and various reviews facing down Bobby. It feels like a challenge almost; pick me up, the book says to him, you know why you’re not. And with that, Bobby grabs the book and throws it in a drawer, where the looming threat of traditional recovery awaits. As long as he can make his way out the door and back in without a breakdown, he considers himself in treatment. And, as he enters The Secret Lair, a bartender waves him over. Another night of living on the edge of sanity awaits him.

“Hey, doll.” Bobby greets, smirking at the bartender who’s gotten used to his frequent visits. He’s taller than Bobby, with a mop of blonde hair and tattoos trailing down his arms. Conventionally attractive, sure, but Bobby would rather keep a good reputation with the people who put his drinks together.

“Usual?”

“You know me so well.” The drink slides across the table and Bobby catches it with another loose smile. “Tell me, anyone you think I’ll be eyein’ up tonight?”

“You know what, there’s a guy at the pool table in the back who looks like he’s up for some fun tonight.” The bartender chuckles before he begins to call after Bobby as he’s swept up in the crowd. “My lips are sealed though, you got that?”

“Clear as day!” Bobby shouts back, working his way over to the mystery man of the night.

Feeling alone in the crowded bar never fails to give Bobby a new lease on life, if only for a few hours. No one _knows_ him, not besides the bartender (whose name he hasn’t bothered to remember, even after all this time) and a couple of other regulars who are in no spot to judge him. Eventually, he does find the man of the hour who the bartender was directing him to earlier. The man’s name is Caleb, and they dance for half an hour, Madonna’s voice clouding with those around him until he twirls Caleb around, and whispers in his ear, “Meet me by the employee’s closet.”

Getting into the employee’s closet works about 30% of the time, depending on if Bobby can ice the lock fast enough, but it works fine for tonight. The bulb that lights the room vibrates with the beat of the club around them as Bobby traces Caleb’s body with reckless abandon. When Caleb slips out the door twenty minutes later, the bartender from earlier casts a distasteful glare his way. He pointedly smiles back before leaving the club, sweaty and unbothered.

When he returns in the dead of night, Jean-Paul is awake and reading at the kitchen table with a cup of tea. 

“Fancy seeing you here,” Bobby attempts, casually re-buttoning his shirt to hide an obvious trace of dishevelment. “What’s kept you up?”

“Nightmare.” Jean-Paul replies flatly, practically screaming to Bobby _don’t push the fucking subject_.

“Oh. Hope you feel better.” Bobby tells him, slipping by to climb the stairs.

As he undresses for a shower, wiping residue of the night off of his body, Bobby thinks of Jean-Paul downstairs. Jean-Paul who had a nightmare. It’s unspoken but obvious what the cause of the nightmare was. Bobby steps into the shower, thinking back to the face on the back of the book, pondering.


	2. his bitter sweet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from cavetown's "lemon boy"

Daken is on a stake out. A bartender who’s done a bad thing five too many times. He’s been coming in every day, eyeing when the target is working. Staking out the bar and other haunts of the target also allows him the knowledge of certain quirks or reflexes. There’s a dull thrill to being back in a bar, going back to someone else’s and leaving in the dead of night with something that looks like it costs more than fifty bucks. 

“Hey, my car’s out back,” Daken suggests (It’s a stupid lie, he took the bus there, but it’s fun to pretend, right?), and the bartender (who he’s spent too much time looking at, it’s a pity, really, the man is handsome) is more than willing to oblige, and as they get into the back alley, Daken slams the man’s head against a dumpster and unsheathes his claws.

He returns to the bar fifteen minutes later after disposing of the bartender in various places. He’s never been at the bar this late before, sliding into a rounded booth where he feels his entire body _freeze_ . Seeing Bobby Drake for the first time never gets old. Maybe it’s the dim lighting of the bar, but he’s confronted with a Bobby Drake with a gauntness in his features and stiff movements. The smile playing on his lip isn’t genuine, it’s laughable, even, how hard he’s trying. He'd never make it as an actor. The facade gets past the bartender as Bobby drifts out of his sight line and into the sea of bodies. Questions cloud his mind for the moment following, trying to process that Bobby was in the bar, something’s _up_ with him, he isn’t with the X-Men. It’s so out of character that it seems to be a mystery in and of itself.

So Daken comes in the next night. Takes a bar stool, sloppily makes out with some redhead against a wall with one eye trained on Bobby who seems to be all too keen on leading some guy into a fucking storage closet. 

The next night is more of the same, and the cycle repeats like that. It _should_ get boring. It doesn’t. Something about trying to figure out Bobby’s _deal_ without ever having to face him is intriguing.

The night that everything really _begins_ , that Daken can feel himself being whisked back into Bobby Drake’s whirlpool, is a Friday night. It’s just past 10:30pm when Daken lets his eyes drag to Bobby icing the doorknob of the storage closet. The guy who’s standing with him’s face shifts into a mix of confusion and anger. Daken moves through the crowd, eyes trained on the situation which seems to be heating up with every body he passes. At the same time some blonde attempts an ass-grab, Bobby attempts to grab the guy’s hand. Through a pair of grinding redheads, the guy swats it away jabbing his finger on Bobby’s chest. Daken’s not _stupid_ ; this situation has a lot of potential to go upside down and sideways, and by the time he’s within hearing range, the men are in each other’s face.

“Fuckin’ mutie, he was gonna lure me in there, don’t think he wasn’t!” The dude shouts. 

For a split second, Bobby looks like a deer caught in headlights. From what Daken’s experienced with Bobby, the tough exterior returns with quips, he doesn’t take it to heart. An obviously inebriated Bobby lets his face settle again with a grimace Daken’s seen before, never in a context like this though. “Shut up, you wouldn’t know what a mutie looked like if it hit you over the fuckin’ head!”

“They bothered with that bullshit cure and for what? For _what_? Didn’t stop you all from springing right back up again. It’s like fucking weeds with these guys.” It’s so blatantly obvious that this guy wants a reaction, he’s egging Bobby on, and Bobby’s _falling_ _for it_. It’s so far out of the realm of possibility in any other situation that when Bobby throws a punch, Daken wavers for a moment. There’s a sense of rebellious pride growing in him. He's immediately entranced by Bobby's movements, and taking in the situation leaves him breathless for a second, assessing and analyzing. 

Bobby's pleas of “Fight back! Fight _back_!” ground him in the situation again. The guy’s up and out the door, a bartender’s on her way over to assess the situation, and Daken’s still lurking behind a pillar, watching Bobby scream out, “Coward! Get back here!” at empty space. 

His constant instinct has been to _fight_. For so long in his life, he’s accepted, maybe even went _looking_ for, challenges, no matter the cost. But, after watching the scene before him, so vulnerable and emotional and _raw_ , the exit Bobby’s failed hookup made his escape through with a broken nose and an expression livid with anger is looking like the easier way out. Daken’s never _been_ the flight guy. He doesn't know why he feels compelled to start fleeing now. Begrudgingly, he continues this routine. Staying a few feet away feels so _safe_. And it’s not like safety is something he thrives in. Feeling safe is a ruse in any sort of non-civilian work. As his steps begin moving him backwards, he knows he’d rather walk over a minefield than walk up to Bobby like _this_. When Bobby gets better, will he think any differently of the X-Man? When it’s between some bullshit X-Men values and hurting a dog that’s been down before? It’s bullshit. This...vulnerability shit. It’s never fazed him before like this, with worry about facing an opponent because of personal information he knows. It shouldn't make any difference. It _doesn't_ make any difference. 

As he sits back down in a booth, the same one he's claimed for the past week-or-so, rounded out with the same barely-there lighting, letting the ins and outs of strobes watch Bobby stand back up for himself. The bartender seems to have given him a stern warning and stopped there. Daken doesn’t judge her for that. Bobby is pitiful at this moment. Something was wrong, and maybe it wasn't his place to watch it, to psychoanalyze this drastic personality shift in someone who was - maybe still is - an enemy but of course Daken ignores the part of his mind which tells him to ignore it. The night is winding down, nothing’s been able to beat the rush of watching Bobby act out like that. But as Bobby leaves, Daken feels himself pulled back out of his thoughts. The situation is stabilized, so he follows Bobby out. He falls back to watch Bobby call a cab, only to sneak up, peeking his head in and asking, “Mind if I join you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uploaded in just over a week!
> 
> twit: TONYRH0DEY (come say hi!)


	3. aim it at the dying star

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from ajj's "hate, rain on me"
> 
> content warning for drunkenness throughout

Daken supposes it’s due to Bobby’s confused and drunken demeanor that Bobby nods his head confusedly as Daken tells the driver his address before he begins with a graceful, “The fuck’re you doin’ here?”

“Did you _see_ yourself back there? Drake,” the echo in his mind applauds him for establishing a line of vulnerability not to cross, as if calling Bobby by his first name would drastically change the situation (and no way he’s calling this irrecoverably fractured mess of a former fling Iceman right now) “there’s no way in hell you’ll be able to get back to wherever the fuck you live without falling down a flight of stairs.” This seems to confuse Bobby even more. 

Either way, they arrive at Daken’s home unscathed. Bobby seems to have at least some understanding of the situation, he doesn’t refuse help as Daken helps Bobby out of the cab and into the apartment. Even in his frenzied mind, a wave of wariness rolls down his body. 

“Take the couch. I’ll lend you some clothes that aren’t…” Daken trails off, gesturing to the blood stain on Bobby’s t-shirt.

“Ah, man. This was one of my favorites.” Bobby replies, still trying to keep from registering the fact that he’s in _Daken’s_ apartment and sitting on his couch. Daken’s in the kitchen, pouring a glass of water, giving Bobby time to assess the situation. First and foremost, the apartment is nice. A small portrait of a woman lies in a frame against the wall. The woman is young, with black hair tied behind her head and a smile so friendly there’s a crinkle in her eyes. With the quality of the photo Bobby assumes this is Daken’s mother, far before she had Daken. He feels like he’s tiptoeing a very fragile line of intimacy. Looking at the photo and the woman’s smile and comparing her to what her son has become, it feels invasive. So he looks to the ground and wipes a hand over his face as Daken returns.

“Drink some water.” Daken tells him firmly. Bobby obeys, accepting the glass and taking a few sips and placing it down on the coffee table. “Use a fucking coaster at least, Jesus.” Daken slides one over and Bobby places the glass down again, this time with a little more embarrassment. “Look, you can take the couch for the night and I can lend you some pajama bottoms. The laundromat downstairs is free for tenants, I’ve got no problem with washing your shit for the night.”

“Can I call someone? He needs to know I’m alright.” Bobby asks, his face caught between embarrassment and shame.

“Yeah, there’s one out in the hall. Wouldn’t wanna keep you from ‘im for too long.” Daken bristles, already forming an image of whoever’s waiting for Bobby. He’s playing the other man, and it sends a slight rush through him.

“It’s _not_ like that.” The other man stills, standing up and walking towards the door to get to the wall phone. “I’m gonna, uh, call. Before I get changed.” The _thank you_ following goes unspoken. Bobby doesn’t want to say it, and is well aware that Daken wouldn’t want to hear it.

The phone at the Jinadu-Beaubier goes to voicemail. Bobby runs a hand down his face, the other grasping the trimstyle landline. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, hoping that if he tries hard enough he’ll develop some kind of secondary mutation that allows him to slip through the phone and back to the security of Jean-Paul’s house. The beep of the phone reminds him of the purpose of his call. The buzz of the alcohol and the reluctant admittance of acknowledging that something _happened_ at the bar creates a queasy feeling as Bobby begins.

“Hi, Jean-Paul. It’s Bobby. Wanted to let you know I’m safe for the night an’ that I’ll be home tomorrow morning. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you. But, uh, I’m safe,” he pauses for a moment, “and thank you. For everything.” _It can’t have been easy,_ he doesn’t say, _I don’t know how to live with what happened back there, I’m not sure if I can_ , he refuses to add. “See you when I see you.” With that, he hangs up, squeezing his eyes shut again, tears finding their way through this time. He opts to wipe them away with the heel of his palm, returning back inside the apartment.

Daken’s sitting in an armchair across from the couch, tossing Bobby a pair of pajama pants as he stands up. 

“Don’t come trying to wake me up tomorrow when you try to find the Advil. It’s on the island with water. I’ll wash the clothes in the morning.” With that, Daken walks out of the room. Bobby gulps, looking at the pajama pants, and accepting his fate. 

Lying on Daken’s couch is surprisingly comfortable. He lays facing the door, trying to avoid anything implying that Daken is more than just a past fling with major daddy issues that is in the room. Sleep comes easily, the buzz holding him in a calm state, preventing some of the harsher but regular nightmares.

Daken is already at the island when he wakes up, Bobby’s clothes folded and sitting in a neat pile at the corner. A plate of eggs and sausage sitting in front of him.

“Mornin’,” Bobby smiles weakly grabbing the Advil bottle tightly and washing a pair down with water. He can feel the pulsations of last night in his mind, and finds his knuckles bloodied. 

“You’re nursin’ a black eye too, sunshine.” Daken grunts, watching Bobby with sharp brown eyes. 

“Fuck.”

“What happened last night?” Daken asks, reasoning that small talk is meaningless (and there’s a feeling in him that wants Bobby to stay, to hear stories about good times, but just because his mind wants that, _he doesn’t_ ).

“Nothi--”

“Don’t try that shit on me.”

“I don’t have to tell you jack shit,” Bobby can feel his fists clench and face go steely.

“Sure. Whatever. I know that what I saw last night was _not_ Bobby Drake. Sure as hell not an X-Man.” Daken snorts. It’s an obvious ploy to get more information out of Bobby, but he bites his tongue because he’s falling for the bait, just like he did last night. “You gonna go take your shit back to your boy toy?”

“I don’t have a ‘boy toy,’ asshole.” He’s building him up again, it’s working, and he knows he shouldn’t fall for this, but keeping defenses up for so long has gotten tedious. 

“Yeah? Then who you callin’ last night?”

“Northstar, alright? You satisfied?” Daken’s eyes widen, but no other giveaways line his features as Bobby shouts. “I’m staying with him for the time being.”

“Jean-Paul gonna let you back in like this?” Daken asks, eyeing up the bruise on Bobby’s cheek and his bloody knuckles. But this time, it’s quieter. Like Bobby’s outburst had an unintended side effect. Maybe it’s pity for how fucking pathetic Bobby is, crazed by 8 in the morning and putting up a poor act of indifference.

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” Bobby responds, trying to force the walls he had managed to keep up for so long back. 

“You think Beaubier’s an idiot, Boy Scout?” Daken laughs.

“Fuck off.”

“Then take your shit and go. But,” Daken swallows, “...don’t do anything stupid.” He says after a moment, leaving _take care of yourself_ unsaid, right next to _let me know if you need anything_ , both of which would taste like poison if they ever came out of his mouth.

“I gotta change first though.” Bobby coughs after a minute. They’re both where they were before, Daken’s breakfast still sitting in front of him, untouched, and the Advil bottle tight in Bobby’s hand, both attempting to reason with the surge of emotions not even a minute before.

“Yeah, leave the bottoms in the bathroom.” Daken says unevenly. Bobby tries not to dwell on the unfamiliar edge in Daken’s voice.

As Bobby walks away from the apartment building, his hands drift to his pockets. A wrinkled scrap of paper that wasn’t there before attempts to fall to the ground, but Bobby catches it first. Scribbled on it is Daken’s address, comparing the paper to a blurry memory of Daken in the cab the night before, giving it to the cabbie the night before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my twit is @TONYRH0DEY come talk to me there!


	4. trip over your history

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from all time low's "dirty laundry"
> 
> content warning for panic attack and some imagery of blood/broken glass

The walk back to Jean-Paul’s house allows Bobby to clear his head. The events of the night before unfurl in his mind and send a shiver down his spine. He’d had enough of a tantrum that _Daken_ thought him in need of help. Hands in his pockets, dripping misery from his every step, a walk of shame for how pathetic the situation was, he thought further about Daken. His house had managed to find an eerie middle ground between comfort and unsettling, although the paranoia surrounding it was more on Bobby’s part. As he feels his feet lead him through increasingly familiar streets, the more he catches himself twisting with the paper in his hand and looking back. _It’s not too late_ , his mind whispers, but he gulps all of that down. Both Daken and Jean-Paul want him to get _better_ , to whatever degree he’s capable of, with both of them knowing different aspects of how the cruel construction work in his head is getting. Daken, Bobby imagines, will rip the band-aid off, push him harder until he can acknowledge it, while Jean-Paul understands the importance of the free admission of need. And, as he sneaks in (though it’s 9:00 in the morning), he’s comforted by the familiarity in his surroundings. Even though he knows that Jean-Paul and Kyle are both out at their respective jobs, there’s something juvenile about walking up the stairs, like sneaking back into the mansion after a night out, feeling youthful and not ready to face any consequences. Bobby likes the assumption it’s rebellion, though he knows it’s guilt. 

The book Jean-Paul gave him at the beginning of the week is still in the drawer when he reaches for a pair of pants. The smile of the author, still staring back at him, turns his own face into a sneer, like the happiness of the person who bothered to do so much work on a subject that’s caused him so much grief is a smack across the face. This time, the book goes to the bottom drawer of his bedside table, between a photo of Bobby from his time teaching (an unpleasant lump forms at the back of his throat when he thinks about how far he’s gone from that content state) and a stuffed animal he’d won at the beach what feels like a lifetime ago with Kitty (she’d made him promise to keep it, as a reminder of friendship and whatnot, but the little stuffed koala isn’t his, not really), where he’ll never look at it again. Sure, the force used in getting the book into the drawer is excessive, but, in the moment, the book getting out of his face is the number one priority, and maybe if he throws it hard enough, it’ll stay gone (he knows this is delusional, but the way his muscles adapt to toss it speaks to the need enough).

The shower is a refreshing enough experience. There’s some pieces of glitter and the last of the blood under his nails that drain with the water that’s hit his skin, but he doesn’t mind. His eyes remain open as long as he can hold them, the picture of the woman in the photograph at Daken’s, and the pitiful little puddle on the ground where Bobby Drake once stood at the bar last night, blending into the blackness when they’re closed. It’s a strange sensation, knowing Daken, in a way that nothing compares to.

Bobby’s sitting on the couch when Jean-Paul returns. It’s mid-afternoon, his hair is dry, and House Hunters is on the television. 

“I’m glad you’re back,” Jean-Paul says, his features soft, almost sympathetic, and Bobby feels a rigidness return to his body. It takes too much control for him not to flinch away from the hug that Jean-Paul brings him into. It feels like some kind of evaluation, as Jean-Paul looks over Bobby’s bruised face, followed by a visible gulp. “Did you get into any trouble?”

“No, no, nothing like that. I…I slipped. You know,” he pauses, pulling a face that should feel natural, trying to find familiarity and comic relief facade that has kept him grounded for so long, “clumsy Bobby.” It comes out dry and disjointed. A weak excuse rather than a self-deprecating joke that would cause Jean-Paul to roll his eyes and continue with his day.

“Alright.” Jean-Paul smiles warily, but Bobby can tell he’s biting his tongue, wanting to ask more questions and exorcise whatever’s taken him over since coming back from _there_.

As Jean-Paul goes to leave the room, he turns back, for a moment only, snickering as he says, “They choose number three.”

“Ah, screw you, man!” Bobby jokes, and it feels so normal and relaxed. Bobby believes, a genuine smile finding its way onto his face for the first time in so, so long, he’d give anything to have all of this back.

The rest of the day moves on and routine is embraced again, and Bobby is content to find himself in this veiled version of life, without discussing pain or ignorance. 

  
  


Bobby’s cleaning dishes from a pizza Kyle had brought home when he hears Jean-Paul’s voice over the sound of the running water, coming from another room. Slowly, he turns the faucet off and guiltily leans closer to the door in order to hear the conversation more clearly. “I’m just... _worried_ about him,” Jean-Paul continues. God, it’s not like he doesn’t know that everyone’s thinking it, but hearing it still hurts in an indefinable way.

“It’s not your responsibility to look after him, JP. Bobby doesn’t have an anchor the way we do,” Jubilee’s on the other end of the line, her voice loud and recognizable even on the most sensitive of matters, “and I think he needs time to process it. By himself. He’ll come back to us when he’s ready, but don’t keep pulling him, even if it’s what’s best.”

“When he came home today, he had a black eye. I did not push the subject, but I am not sure he is getting the help he needs from partying and, apparently, fights.” Bobby moves away from the door, returning to the dishes with a new ferocity. It’s so _stupid_ and pitiful; Jean-Paul’s always been more mature than him, sure, but any status of _feeling_ older or more aware of the world drains away. He’s wrapped in the hurricane of thought, so much coming in at 100 miles an hour that the scalding water that’s pruning his hands is distant, along with the plate he’s gripping so tightly it cracks. He feels his breaths become heavier, until he’s heaving to get air into his lungs. He remains composed, wondering for a moment if there’s something in that book that’s so far away that could stop all of this, even just for a second. 

Things begin to make more sense as his breaths even out, along with the realization of the stinging in his hands. Nothing looks too bad; the water’s reddened his hands a fair amount, and the blood is still bright in where the plate had fractured. As he reaches to turn the water off, he listens for his friends’ voices again, to hear nothing. He supposes Jean-Paul’s tucked in for the night. The clock on the stove glares back at him, reading _8:58_ . For a split-second, he considers taking a rational route; finding that dumb book and looking through it and starting the long and dangerous path to recovery. But he finds himself wary of the idea of putting effort into the process when what happened isn’t going to go away, and, regardless of therapy or whatever some doctor who doesn’t have a fucking _clue_ about X-Tremists or anything like Nate Grey’s twisted mind has to say, it’ll stay with him.

  
  


The city streets are less crowded. Hopefully everyone’s inside, nursing a fire or leaning against something (or someone) just as hot in the cold weather. His hands are tucked inside pockets, the bruises on his knuckles and cuts on his palms aware only to him. He wonders, briefly, what everyone else sees. Does he seem down on his luck, what with the black eye? Does he look like he’s got his life together? Does he look _normal_? It had taken him long enough to accept the mutant thing and then the gay thing on top of the mutant thing, but his shoulders twist again as he realizes that the welcome in either of the groups would be unfavorable. 

He’s alerted to a tell-tale sign of trouble when he hears a couple of guys shouting in an alley. There’s a pair of guys beating on a third man against the hood of a car.

“Hey!” He shouts, breaking into a run as he gets closer to the dim scene. 

“Ah, shit!” One of the guys shouts, immediately making for a getaway down the other end of the alley. Bobby catches himself icing the guy before he can make it more than a couple yards, turning to face the other two. 

“So, care to explain?” Bobby laughs, and for a brief second, he feels like he’s finally getting somewhere. Doing the right thing, helping people in need. But when the other assailant tries to punch him, Bobby reacts just as quickly. “Whatcha’ gonna do, huh?” Bobby sneers, looking at the first man with all but his head encased in ice. Behind him, the third man looks _horrified_. 

As he walks away from the situation, with one of the men still shouting at him, pride bubbles inside him. A small pat on the back, for looking out for the little guy and whatnot. 

It’s not until he’s facing down the door of Jean-Paul and Kyle’s door that guilt begins to bubble inside him, from a deep part. He’s running on the adrenaline, and it had felt so _good_ that the rushing tide of uneasiness is something he wants to refuse. He wants to walk in, stand up and tell Jean-Paul, “I’m cured! I got it out of my system! Say _bon voyage_ to deadbeat Bobby Drake!” to prove him wrong. The door handle, though, it feels like fire to the touch, as if his lies are palpable. He looks at the cookie-cutter house with longing; to fit into it, to be _better_ , but, he can’t find the handle again. Living with the burgeoning feeling of pride and fear swirling in a tropical storm that he knows he can stop before it goes full hurricane again.

  
  
  


He raps on Daken’s door three or four times before the door opens to an unimpressed Daken. 

“What do you want?” He asks dryly.

“How do you do it?”

“What?”

“You know, go on remorseless after hurting someone?” Bobby hisses, looking down at either end of the hallway, rising on the balls of his feet before falling again, holding back _God, it felt so good_. 

“What’d you do, Snowflake?” Daken’s brows quirk up, indicating a newfound interest in the conversation.

“I went a little overboard, alright. There were these guys beating up on this girl and I roughed ‘em up, that’s all.” Bobby huffs, crossing his arms over his chest.

“How so? I can’t imagine you moving by without at least _threatening_ to throw a punch.”

“Let me in and I’ll tell you, alright.” Bobby runs a hand over his face, trying to cover his pursed features. 

“All yours,” Daken agrees, opening the door wider and gesturing with his arm to let Bobby in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *returns after months* please take this:^0
> 
> find me on twitter: runningcurrents  
> find me on tumblr: bnvolios

**Author's Note:**

> thank u to blaine, matt, n scott for betaing this and encouraging me. i have the next couple chapters written, expect chapter two within the next week! thank you so much for reading!
> 
> find me on twit: @TONYRH0DEY


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